


Dark Moon

by horse



Series: Faithful Night [2]
Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26417482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horse/pseuds/horse
Summary: A new era, a new name, and a new cause. And everything is as it should be, until the world is turned on its head.Sequel to White Sun.
Relationships: Artorias the Abysswalker/Dark Sun Gwyndolin
Series: Faithful Night [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1920190
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> Hullo! This fic is based on a lot of speculation and as such requires suspension of belief above all! A lot of what ifs at play, but I really wanted an excuse to write some more Dark Souls stuff. :o) Rating will change depending on where this goes. Thank you for reading!

The frost was never new, not like the moon - although its phases were a thing of splendor more than nature.

He raised his hood, hair iridescent in the light. This form was not like the one before it. Escaping fate had been no easy feat, after all, though the measure surely had its boons: a realm of his own, to rule as he was born to. Sorcery, to be practised as he was born to practise it. All without guise. That strange and bright mask... heavy with the weight of his lineage… gone, but not forgotten.

The linking of the fire had always been a mistake. Gouge after gouge into the flesh of destiny, of prophecy. Any mortal would curl at the thought of such folly, but it turned the deity into stone, cold and hard, as he looked upon the capitol of the Sunless Realms with eyes that, in the firelight, seemed almost serpentine.

Slender fingers passed over something soft and old. A note preserved from a reality that was, now, lifetimes away. The writing was fine enough, rough in the way of someone for whom calligraphy was not a natural talent. The words were… charming, in their own right. The deity permitted himself to utter them, just above a whisper: “I look once more upon the surface still… to see the moon again in hallowed light.” 

His voice sounded odd in the quiet, too jarring to press on. The rest was recited in the confines of his mind, in a voice deeper than his own, and more robust. _Lo, do readily give their hearts to spill, the beasts and men alike that roam the night._

After this long, the poetry did not tighten his chest as it once did. Since the passing of that great knight, the word of it… well. Such was the way of things.

The rest of the sonnet was burned from his mind, and the world. Indeed with fire, most ironically.

\---

The body dragged. Coils of itself, for centuries, eons, reconverging. Memories twinkling in the dark... so vulnerable, so easily devoured, and yet, so very hopeful.

Hands were searching. Eyes could not see. The feel of cold earth and stone beneath and above and around… the sound of bones. Chattering. Falling. Stalking.

What lay just above the Abyss? One wondered… 

Suddenly, after lifetimes, there was the feel of air - of cold, biting air, slipping through cracks, reaching and reaching and reaching. The body was compelled forwards, out of the dark and into a soft, amber light. On the wall. Visions blurred and focused and blurred once more, back into obscurity. There was a darkness that was unlike that of the past. It could be cut, now, by light - firelight - and perfumed with the smell of sorcery and dust. Many aged things, shelved in the walls, shelved in the ceiling, shelved in the ground.

One could only push forward.

There was a small doll on the ground, which skittered forth, but not too far away. It called with a voiceless cry. It pulled without a form.

The doll and the body. On and on and on. Into the light, and into the jagged arms of a life-bringing, soul-stirring cold.


	2. ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive the in-and-out in regards to archaic language. I have my reasons, but mostly to keep it read-able, lol. Hope you enjoy!

There had been a great disturbance by the bridge.

The Nameless Moon was not invoked lightly. In fact, he was guilty of old habits - stealing himself away and out of sight - but this time, at least, it was not done out of shame. Maintaining this new, moonlit realm was consuming enough, though of course, there was the matter of his own longevity… the recent past had given rise to such grim and unsavoury things. He was sure his penance had another name. Another face.

His steps were light over the stone, barefoot as he was. The Nameless Moon was and had always been a friend of irregularity. The novelty of legs, and of feet, was something he could not let go of, even after all this time. Suitable for the image of a humble albeit powerful essence, he had supposed; now the stone felt too cool upon his soles. He was walking too fast. It couldn’t be helped.

There the intruder was, armour glowing amber by the firelight - which was so horribly warped and soot-bespattered that it was almost unrecognisable. Almost.

The deity moved slowly, approaching the hunched figure with caution, as if it would still do some great harm, despite being surrounded and weighted by shackles. The prisoner was mostly silent. His breathing was laboured and sounded horribly rough.

“Thou hast journeyed far… hear my voice.” Something had compelled him to speak age-old words. But he could never forget that sapphire shroud, tattered as it was. Nor that helm, or any part of the image that had materialised before him like a tangible nightmare.

“You…” A voice rasped, like a toothless growl. 

The air in him left, leaving a painful hush. But still, everything seemed so impossible. Had he accidentally conjured up this memory? Had something in his sorcery bent out of shape as to deposit such an image before him?

Nameless Moon bade all others to take their leave. No matter what calamity the intruder could bring to Irithyll, it would be nothing in the face of it’s progenitor, that was to be sure. And so, the room emptied accordingly. He took a step towards the prisoner, who remained bowed in pain or lethargy or some combination, who, at the very least, seemed to find breathing less and less taxing with passing time.

“Cast aside thine ire, Great Knight. Do this, and free, thou willst be set.” The deity promised, still approaching, one hand raised tentatively.

“Thy ring…”

He stopped at the prisoner’s words. There was, perhaps, no one left in the world to know the ring he wore, which he could not bear to leave behind. Unbecoming as it might have been, and in contrast to much of what he had worn and now wore; still, it remained an integral part to his being, stuck on the namesake finger.

Nameless Moon waited to hear the voice again, that which had become increasingly like one in distant, transient dreams. There was only the sound of crackling fire.

“How have you come to know this ring?” He asked at long last, impatience getting the best of him. But once again, he was met with an uncomfortable silence, and then the terrible clang of metal on stone as the knight fell to his knees, muttering, words distorted in a tell-tale way.

“I beg of thee… I have availed you… nothing…“

“Artorias-” He had meant to say more, but that helm turned sharply at the name, and the shining, silver-plated body shifted uncharacteristically in grotesque motion, straight towards him.

\---

Everything had happened so fast.

Nameless Moon stood in the center of the room. It was far away from Anor Londo, but no one would have been the wiser; this place was a masterful replica. As it would be by the hands of anyone who had called the place home.

The remnants of sorcery were gone now, but the hum of magic had not left him. Perhaps it was his nerves holding to the sound. He could not tell. When it finally acquiesced to silence, Gwyndolin looked at the ring on his hand, and then behind him, towards a familiar row of windows, the pillars below… he felt a silly urge to plant himself on the other side of this mirage, by the windows which had become most familiar to him - where he could see the steps to the cathedral entrance, to calm his fast-beating heart. 

Long gone were the days he would conjure up the images of ghosts upon those steps, ascending and yet never entering, who married the wind once again before he could descend and meet them. Those shadows of what once had been.

Gwyndolin closed his eyes. The golden circle of magic in front of him hummed with purpose, and he awaited the odious air and atmosphere of the Irithyll dungeons.

\---

“I know you.” The deity said, not lowering his hood. “Perhaps you have forgotten me, in the throes of thine affliction.” The bars were warm, and the air was thick. When he received no immediate answer, he continued, a little rushed with emotion he could not contain. “But you know it. That ring; if thou art not… I will absolve you of all ill purpose. That is my word. Speak your secrets.”

The silver helm shifted slightly again, and Gwyndolin was rigid, recalling what had happened last they were in the same space: the way that suit of armour had moved so expertly, as always, and yet in a way he had never seen before. The aggression… the mindlessness. He was not sure the bars between them would do any good, especially if this was Artorias after all.

“I am… lost.” The prisoner said at long last, turning away, hands palm up before him, he might have been regarding them with befuddlement, by the nature of his tone. “I have failed… and I am… forgive me…“ His words tapered into a murmur, and then a hush, gauntlets curling.

“It was a fool’s errand.” Gwyndolin offerred, quiet but authoritative. For there was no one who knew better the folley of Lord Gwyn. Light flickered across the walls, trembling around and on the surface of that subdued, melancholic heap of armour. The cell door wailed shut behind him, and Gwyndolin took deliberate steps forwards, changing his appearance in a way he hoped would nestle warmer memories to the forefront of the prisoner’s dark-clouded mind. “Look upon me, Sir Knight.”

In the glow of the illusion, Gwyndolin saw parts of a face cut by shadow. The tip of a nose, part of a brow - dusted with earth and muck. The body before him sat rigid, perhaps regarding him; Gwyndolin could not be sure, the prisoner’s eyes painted into obscurity by a persistent, all-swallowing ink.

And then, after too long:

“You have changed.” Warmth. There was warmth in those words. Gwyndolin’s fingers slid into tattered fabric to caress the jaw that spoke them.

“Likewise, Artorias.”

“Yes…”

“I had to entertain the notion you would not return.”

Artorias bent forwards slightly. A shaky exhale escaped him. Gwyndolin thought he would lean forwards enough to rest against him, but the knight only curled into himself, hands coming up to latch onto Gwyndolin’s forearms. Pieces of his gauntlets were missing; some fingers lay exposed, charred, bruised and marked with ancient wounds. The plating at his own forearms looked horribly battered. It was difficult to stave off everything that came crashing down, but Gwyndolin was changed, irreparably so.

“I feel that I… that I have gone against the fabric of all things…“

It was a mutual feeling, the deity thought to himself, dispelling the illusion and returning to his current state. His eye caught the bodies of ephemeral snakes as they tapered into nothingness, vanishing softly, having long accepted their nonexistance. “The greatest that there ever was… lost? How could that be? That was my thinking, eons ago. The world could not be done with you.”

The knight’s grip tightened before becoming gentle once again. “I beg of thee…“

The halved request went unfinished. Artorias became victim to some internal thing as before, leaving Gwyndolin alone in the cell once again.


End file.
